


Let It Rain

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Friendship with very few boundaries, Is there a proper trope name for warming up someone/keeping them warm?, M/M, Pre-Slash, That's the whole point of this fic okay, They may be in love but neither of them is going to say anything about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 02:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20538443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John may not like it when Sherlock disappears without a word, but he's always happy to offer a little care when his friend returns. Sometimes that goes into a surprising direction.





	Let It Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пусть идёт дождь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20625842) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)

> The same translation also available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8626641).

The patter of the raindrops against the windowpanes is steady and endless. Half an hour ago, John started to feel the damp chill of it creeping into the flat and lit a fire. Now the warmth has spread through the living room, but the cold seems to have settled into his bones instead. He knows he won't feel warm until – until–

He sits down to his chair and checks his phone. He's been doing that too much, but he can't stop, even when he knows there have been no messages. All his texts to Sherlock are still unanswered. In fact, the only text he has gotten within the past three days has been from Mycroft.

_I'm aware of his general location._

As far as reassurances go, that isn't a particularly effective one. It can mean anything. Sherlock may have a case that doesn't require John's help. He may have decided he needs a little break, to be alone, for some reason.

As little as John likes to think about it, Sherlock may also be somewhere high out of his mind in a vain attempt to alleviate his all-encompassing boredom. John's never been wholly convinced that Mycroft is doing his part in keeping Sherlock clean – he is there to drag Sherlock back to his feet and clean up the mess, but that's too little, too late. Damage control is never as effective as prevention, and still Mycroft is focused on the former.

Maybe it's unfair to blame Mycroft, but when Sherlock is gone and John is left alone, he needs to blame _someone_.

Sighing, John puts his phone away and opens the book he's been trying to read, without much success. He's tired, but he can't go to his own bed to sleep. He needs to be here when Sherlock comes home, to check him for injuries, to see if he's taken something.

To feel the relief of having him back inside the safe haven of their shared home.

Possibly also to yell at him, or at least subject him to a very serious lecture about _not disappearing without leaving a bloody word_. He's not sure how much good that will do, of course, because Sherlock isn't particularly good at caring, especially when he gets lost in whatever is happening inside his brilliant head. One of the downsides of having chosen an emotionally challenged genius as his best friend, he supposes.

He stares at the page in front of him, but his eyelids are drooping and the words are blurring, and he knows he'll fall asleep soon. He doesn't fight it.

The living room is warm, the fire still burning merrily when Sherlock stumbles through the door. It's almost four in the morning, and the rain is coming down as if it could go on forever. John jerks awake in his chair, and his book falls from his lap to the floor with a dull thud. He blinks blearily and turns to look towards Sherlock, who is leaning against the door he has closed behind himself, head down, rainwater dripping from his soaked hair and from the too-thin grey jacket he's wearing.

John gets up. "Sherlock," he calls.

Sherlock raises his head. He's trembling, and John can't tell if he's simply cold, or if it's withdrawal. He hopes it's the former.

Under three days' worth of stubble, Sherlock's face is pale with exhaustion, completed with dark shadows under his eyes, but there's something triumphant in the look he's giving John. Whatever he's been doing, it's been successful. That must mean a case, John tells himself. Sherlock wouldn't dare to be triumphant about being able to slip away from John just to get high. He wouldn't _dare_.

"You've been gone for three days, Sherlock," John says. He doesn't quite manage to sound angry, even though he feels that's what Sherlock would deserve. He sounds tired. Resigned. "You could have left me a word, at least. Answered my texts. Something."

"I had a case," Sherlock says, and it sounds like the truth.

John wants to believe it's the truth. "All right." His tone is flat, and even Sherlock seems to catch that.

"John… I'll… Next time, I'll try to let you know where I am?" He sounds hopeful, as if he's not quite sure if this is the right answer – if this is what John wants from him.

It could be an act, too, an attempt to distract, to make himself seem more vulnerable so that John will have to forgive him. John hates it when he can't read Sherlock. Sometimes it's so easy, Sherlock is almost painfully obvious, transparent as glass under John's gaze, and sometimes John can only doubt, because for Sherlock, lying is as natural as breathing.

"That would be good, yes," John says slowly, because that is the truth, and because he's not sure what else he should say.

Looking relieved, Sherlock starts fumbling with the zipper of his drenched jacket – some sort of disguise, it and the threadbare jeans he's wearing aren't part of his usual wardrobe. It takes him two tries to get the zipper down with his cold, stiff fingers, and John decides to leave lectures for later.

He steps up to Sherlock and helps him to pull the jacket off his shoulders. The hoodie under it is soaked through too, and Sherlock's trembling is getting worse. He smells of rain and stale cigarettes. From this close, John can see his pupils. They may be a little dilated, but that's most likely caused by the dim lighting of the room rather than any illegal substances, John tells himself.

"All right," John says. "Into the bathroom with you. We need to get you warmed up."

Sherlock nods and follows John through the kitchen to the bathroom, compliant for once. John takes the wet jacket with them and tosses it on top of the almost-full hamper. Right now, he's more worried about getting Sherlock warm than his clothes drying.

"Off with the rest of that," he tells Sherlock, gesturing towards his still-dripping clothes.

Sherlock nods, but soon it becomes evident he's not in any shape to undress himself. It takes him a whole minute of fumbling to pull off the hoodie and the t-shirt underneath it, and John decides that he's not going to waste time watching Sherlock struggling with his jeans.

He takes a quick look at Sherlock's arms and finds them clean from fresh needle marks. Another good sign, John thinks to himself as he steps closer, though of course it only rules out intravenous drugs, and even that only assuming Sherlock hasn't picked another spot to abuse. John takes a moment to pray that that isn't the case.

He bats Sherlock's hands away and undoes his flies with clinical efficiency. Sherlock tries to step away from him, embarrassed, John thinks, but he's having none of it. He catches Sherlock by the waist and forces his trembling body to stay still. _God_, the man's skin is _cold_.

"I'm a doctor," he reminds Sherlock. "You've got nothing I haven't seen before."

Sherlock huffs, half amused, half frustrated, but allows John to pull his jeans down to his ankles. John realises he should have taken off Sherlock's shoes – old, off-white trainers he's never seen before – first, and rolls his eyes at himself. He crouches down to undo the laces, and Sherlock kicks the shoes off himself and steps out of his jeans, pushes his socks off along with them.

After finding Sherlock's feet clear of injection marks, John gets up and gives Sherlock a quick once-over. The only visible injury on him is a darkening bruise on his left shin, right below the knee, otherwise he seems to be fine, aside from shivering in a futile attempt to stay warm. Sherlock lets him look, no doubt aware that John would insist.

"Pants too," John reminds him when Sherlock starts turning away, towards the shower. Sherlock hesitates, and John allows himself another eye roll, this one directed at Sherlock. "Don't be an idiot."

He gets a glare for that, but it's not particularly effective when Sherlock is trembling like a leaf. John answers with a steady, calm look, and Sherlock huffs again and yanks his pants down, tosses them on the floor.

_Good boy_, John thinks, but decides that's best to left unsaid. He keeps his gaze above waist-level for Sherlock's comfort and steps past him to turn on the shower. He leaves the water lukewarm; it's better to warm Sherlock up slowly instead of shoving him under hot water immediately.

"All right, get in there," John says.

Sherlock steps over the edge of the bathtub and sways. John catches him by the elbow to steady him, and doesn't let go until Sherlock is standing under the spray of water, one hand pressed against the wall for support.

John steps away, collects Sherlock's wet clothes from the floor and tosses them on top of the hamper to join the jacket. The soaked shoes he leaves beside the hamper, hoping they'll be able to dry even a little, and then he sits on the closed lid of the toilet. Sherlock gives him an annoyed look.

"I'm not going anywhere when I can't be sure you're steady on your feet," John says. It'd be better if Sherlock could sit down in the tub, but the water hasn't had the chance to warm it up yet and having so much of Sherlock's skin pressed against the cold porcelain would be counterproductive. "Once the water starts to feel cool, turn up the heat."

"I know how this works, thank you," Sherlock snaps and reaches to adjust the tap. He shivers when warmer water hits his chilled skin, and the bathroom starts to fill with steam.

"Of course you do," John agrees.

He closes his eyes and settles to listen the sounds of water rushing over Sherlock's skin. He's exhausted and his back feels stiff, and the crick in his neck isn't going away anytime soon. His chair isn't a place for a good night's sleep. He imagines Sherlock must be exhausted too, and he's willing to feel some sympathy, even though he's still very much annoyed by what Sherlock has put him through.

He's not sure how long he sits there. He can hear Sherlock shifting, the sound of the water changing along with his movements, and after a while, there's the distinctive scent of Sherlock's body wash, followed by the milder note of shampoo. John thinks he could fall asleep like this, listening to the sounds Sherlock makes, surrounded by familiar scents.

It's an odd thought, he recognises, but he's too tired to analyse it any further.

When the shower turns off, John opens his eyes. He's up on his feet instantly and catches Sherlock by the elbow again when he starts to step out of the tub. That earns him an annoyed little noise for his trouble, though Sherlock allows the steadying hand to stay where it is. John reaches for Sherlock's towel and wraps it around him before he has a chance to get cold again, and then takes another towel and begins to dry his hair.

"I can take care of myself," Sherlock grumbles and reaches for the towel.

John pushes his hand away with a little more force than necessary. "Let me have this."

For a moment, Sherlock stands there looking at him, eyes very wide and lips parted, and then something almost like pain twists his features. He schools his expression back to neutrality with visible effort and his hand goes back to clutching at the towel wrapped around him. He doesn't say a word more; he only stares at the opposite wall, blinking, and John sighs softly and finishes drying his hair.

"If you're too tired to talk, you can go to sleep," he says as he hangs the towel on the nearest hook. "But you'd better understand that I need to know what you've been up to. If you don't tell me tonight, it'll be the first thing waiting for you when you finally get up." His voice may be a little too stern, but he needs to make this clear.

Expressions flicker across Sherlock's face, and John doesn't even try to read them. He waits.

Finally, Sherlock's settles on something akin to petulance.

"Weren't we over this already? I haven't touched any … illicit substances. I wouldn't compromise the work like that. I'm clean, John."

John nods. He's not sure if he believes Sherlock, and Sherlock can tell it, the hurt look on that angular face makes it clear. John is too exhausted to feel as bad about that as he should.

"It's not just the drugs I'm worried about," he says, though he knows it's not much of a consolation. "You were gone for days. I didn't–" he pauses, gritting his teeth. "I don't like it when you disappear like that. Your work is _dangerous_, Sherlock, and I don't like it when I'm not there to keep you safe."

The hurt shifts to something that could be regret. "I know," Sherlock answers slowly. "I know, John."

John sighs. "Go to sleep, or get dressed," he says. It sounds too flat, but he's so tired.

Sherlock nods and slips away into his bedroom.

John returns to the living room. The wind has picked up, and he can hear it whipping drops of water against the windowpanes at irregular intervals. He doesn't know what Sherlock will choose, but a large part of him hopes they'll have this conversation know. He'll sleep better when he knows what Sherlock has been doing.

He picks up his book from the floor and sets it on the desk before turning to stare at the fire. It's warm enough in the room, but he likes the soft hum of it, the flicker of light, so he lets it be. He drops down into his chair again and watches the flames dancing, his eyelids drooping.

If Sherlock is willing to talk, he'll be there soon, and if he isn't, then John will end up sleeping one more night in his chair. That's fine, he decides. He's had practice.

He's almost dozed off when he hears Sherlock's footsteps coming closer. Sherlock stops beside his chair, and John blinks his eyes open and looks up.

"So we're talking now, then?" His voice sounds groggy, and he clears his throat.

Sherlock shrugs one shoulder. "You need it."

John turns to look away. He's being selfish, he realises. It's obvious Sherlock hasn't had much sleep during the past three days, and now that he's warm and comfortable again, he must be feeling drowsy. He hasn't even shaved, something he's usually meticulous about, and that must mean he's not quite feeling like himself.

"I'm sorry," John says, covering his eyes with one hand. "Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning. I shouldn't have–"

He's silenced by Sherlock's cool fingertips on his lips, and he's too surprised to even jerk away from the sudden contact. His hand falls to his lap, and all he can do is to stare at Sherlock when those fingers retreat.

"No, John, it's fine. I'll sleep better when I know you–" Sherlock pauses and clears his throat. He's not meeting John's eyes anymore but blinking at the fire instead. "Yes. Right. Anyway."

John nods slowly. "All right. Sit down, then."

Sherlock gives him a considering look and opens his mouth as if to say something. He closes it without uttering a word, and then John finds himself with a lapful of Sherlock. It happens too fast for his tired brain to follow; one moment Sherlock is standing in front of him, and the next he's sitting sideways on John's lap, head resting on John's shoulder and long legs thrown over the armrest of the chair, bare feet pointing towards the fire. He's all hard muscle and harder bone, tense despite his relaxed posture, as if he expects John to shove him onto the floor.

"Um," John says. "Sherlock?"

He's not sure what he's supposed to do with his hands. The right one is on the armrest behind Sherlock's back and the other is more or less trapped under Sherlock's legs, the back of his hand pressed against Sherlock's thigh. It seems safer not to move them, for now, but even that feels awkward.

Sherlock shifts a little and the tension seems to drain from him when John isn't pushing him away. He settles against John with a soft sigh. "You're comfortably warm."

That explains it, then. Sherlock is still feeling cold, and body heat is an efficient way to stay warm. It makes perfect sense.

This in mind, John frees his arms from under Sherlock and reaches behind himself to pull the afghan from the back of his chair. It's not easy with Sherlock's full weight on him, but finally he gets it and manages to wrap it around Sherlock's shoulders for extra warmth. Sherlock makes a satisfied sound and snuggles closer. John can feel his warm breath against the side of his neck.

"So," John starts. "Your case?"

"Timber smuggling," Sherlock says.

John blinks. That sounds like a joke. "What?"

"Timber, John. Importing illegally logged timber. Had to find the people in charge. Mycroft wanted them out. Causes deforestation and" – Sherlock pauses to yawn – "loss of tax revenue."

John can imagine which one is Mycroft's main concern. Taxes pay for his lavish lifestyle, after all.

"And that, I gather, involved standing outside in the rain?"

"Mmm," Sherlock agrees. Somehow, he manages to shift so that he's pressed even more tightly against John. "Would've liked to have your company, but you would've only gotten cold too. Whinged about that."

"If there's anyone prone to whinging in this room, it's you," John says.

"Am not," Sherlock mumbles. "I make reasonable complaints when it is appropriate."

"Whatever you say." John sighs and tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "You could've woken me up before you left. Or written a note. Answered my bloody texts." His voice gets more agitated towards the end, and he must take a deep breath to calm himself. He's very aware that Sherlock can feel his chest expanding, his ribs pressing against Sherlock's through clothe and flesh.

"I should have," Sherlock admits. His arm slides around John's waist and squeezes. "Didn't intend to make you worry. Thought it'd be over sooner."

It's not an apology, but then, actual apologies from Sherlock tend to have hidden motives. This, at least, is honest. Maybe Sherlock's tired state is to blame.

"All right," John says. He realises his arms have ended up wrapped around Sherlock under the afghan, and he doesn't know when that happened. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. "Remember that next time, yeah?"

"I will."

John sighs again and lets his arms tighten around Sherlock. He's already holding the man; it doesn't make much of a difference. "You reeked of cigarettes. Can you promise me–"

"I told you already, no drugs, John," Sherlock whispers, and now his lips are brushing John's neck. The scratch of his stubble is unfamiliar, but surprisingly not unpleasant. John swallows hard. "I only use when I have to," Sherlock continues.

John doesn't like the sound of that. "I'd prefer if you didn't use at all." His voice is hoarse, and he must swallow again.

Sherlock lifts his head and looks at John. "Haven't for a long while. I don't have to when I have work, or when I'm otherwise distracted," he explains.

There seems to be something more behind those words, something vast and nebulous John can't quite catch. He opens his mouth, only to realise he doesn't know what he's supposed to say. Sherlock ignores his confusion and returns his head on John's shoulder. John decides to change the subject.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" he asks. "Didn't end up in a fight with the timber smugglers?" God, that sounds so stupid. _Timber smuggling_. Jesus. All John can imagine is people furtively sneaking two-by-fours through dim back alleys.

"No fights. Didn't meet them before Mycroft's people came to arrest them. Knocked my leg on a rubbish bin, but you saw the bruise. Not serious." Sherlock sighs. "Tired."

"Go to sleep, then," John tells him.

He doesn't even expect Sherlock to get up; it's already obvious that they're going to spend the night like this. John's going to have to pay for it come morning – he's too old to sleep sitting up, night after night, and especially with the whole weight of another, rather large person pinning him down – but he doesn't mind.

Sherlock makes a small sound of acquiescence, and moments later, he's breathing slow and steady against John's shoulder. John turns his head enough to see Sherlock's face. He looks peaceful like this, calm and almost happy. He doesn't smell of cigarettes anymore, that's been replaced with the scent of clean skin and shampoo in still-damp hair.

John has never been this close to him, not like this, but it seems all right now.

Outside the windows, the rain continues, and he pulls the afghan tighter around Sherlock to make sure he's warm and comfortable, then returns his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock shifts and makes a sleepy noise, buries his nose in John's jumper for more warmth.

John can't help wondering if this is what Sherlock considers being 'otherwise distracted'.

If it is, John thinks, that's probably all right too.


End file.
